


Thirty Six Questions

by RavensWing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meeting, Modern AU, Using my Psych Degree for SOMETHING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensWing/pseuds/RavensWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding love is difficult - unless it is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur Aron published an amazing study that has gotten some press play. It is titled The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness: A Procedure and Some Preliminary Findings (it is so interesting you should go read it in its entirety right now). If you are not a massive nerd like I am though, the cliff notes are that Aron conducted research that suggested that through intimacy-associated behavior and honesty by answering a predetermined series of 36 questions (sequentially increasing in intensity) and employing intimacy-associated behaviors (read: eye contact), he could create a sense of affection between two strangers.
> 
> So that is what this is. Except instead of being in a lab, Killian and Emma are in a bar in NYC. And instead of an envelope with the predetermined questions, I am voicing them through the characters as we go. I do not know if I will hit all thirty six, but that would be fun. Wouldn't it? Or maybe it would just be fun for me. Let me know.
> 
> As always - I own nothing. Not the characters, not Once Upon a Time, not a bar in NYC. No one is giving me money or any other kind of compensation unless you count kudos and comments as compensation. I own the writing and that is it.

It is late and there are ten thousand place she should be other than here, but the whiskey at the bottom of her glass whispers promises to make everything hurt less. And hell - she needs to believe someone - something - so why not the drink in her hand?

Today had been bad, but not in any present way. The weather was pleasant, she'd gotten a big check for her most recent job so she will make rent this month, and Starbucks had only charged her for a tall even though she had ordered a venti. In many ways this immediate day had been above average. It had been bad in the sense that this day was bad every year and will continue to be bad until she is no longer. She wishes - no. The unhappy anniversary cannot be undone and wishing is for suckers.

She is no sucker.

She is, however, an aesthete of a good ball of malt. So she drinks alone tonight the same as she has done this day the last eleven years does her damndest to not think of anything in particular.

She is so lost in not-thought that she does not notice him until he touches her. It is just a brush of leather against the bare skin of her arm, it could have been an accident, but she jolts and looks in his direction.

Her life is first impressions, being able to read people, so she takes him in from head to toe in an instant and makes a decision. _Trouble_ , her mind hisses, and she agrees. Black hair, black leather, and an earring - _hell_ \- he is like the textbook picture next to Bad Choices’. She turns back to her drink.

“The name's Killian.” He does not have to shout because it is not that kind of place, and she is starting to wish it is. It would make it easier to walk away.

She does not reply, but her heart picks up its staccato rhythm the same way it does when she runs, or chases down a perp. She is not excited. No, that is not it. It has been a long time since she has been excited about something, but the way she feels his eyes on her makes her more aware of herself than she has been in a long while.

It is unwelcome. "Like I care."

He laughs low in the back of his throat.

“Well perhaps you should take care as it is my plan to fall in love with you tonight.” The man next to her (Collin?) says. “Seems fair that you should at least know my name.”

She is less than one second away from tossing down some cash on the bar and walking out without another word when his hand is over hers on top the scarred wood. She swears she is going to slap him, but the fingers over her tighten just so and she looks at him instead.

“What in the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” It is all nails and spite and she does not care how blue his eyes look in this light because goddammit this is not what she came here for.

“I’m proposing love, love.” His smile is broad, infectious, but she does not reciprocate. “Or is it that your heart is too weak for a such a dauntless venture?”

Emma Swan has been called a million things, but weak was never one.

That Not Excitement flares in her gut and sucker or not - she loves a good old fashioned dare.

“I don’t fall in love.” She locks eyes him (Chris?), pulls her hand back, and shoots the last of her whiskey.

His eyes flash bright and cunning.

“Then you haven’t the slightest idea what you’re missing.”

“And you’re going to enlighten me?”

“If my lady permits.” He moves forward a fraction, teasing. She does not retreat.

There is a tiny voice in the back of her head that says this one moment could change everything. Another voice laughs: _one thing cannot change everything_ , but she knows it is a lie. Today of all days she knows it to the deepest part of her soul, but also knows she needs it to not be true. She needs to know that one thing, one small choice, can be just that instead of a life-altering turn of events.

He dangles.

She bites.

“You’re going to have to buy me another drink.”

“Anything you want, darling.” His accent bends words she normally felt like acid on her skin to feel like a warm caress. She bristles when she realizes, and looks down her nose at him. She is not going to make this easy.

“Whiskey. Straight, no chaser.”

He sits on the stool next to her and gestures to the bartender. She pulls her guard up high and tight and gives him what she gives so few people - a second look. His face is young, but his eyes lives in the shadow of someone who has seen more than they should. His clothes are clean, new, expensive, but the skin of his hands and neck is rough, scarred, and dark. His haircut is fresh, his shave is not, and everything she notices about him this time continues to paint contradiction. This is why, she reminds herself, she does not do second looks because second looks lead to second guessing and she does not have that luxury.

_But this isn’t a job_. She reminds herself. This is a free drink and fifteen minutes of fun before she grabs a cab and resigns herself to the loneliness that covers her existence like a fog.

She watches the bartender pour her whiskey, not trusting her drink to be out of her sight for a second, and says nothing about the double of Appleton Estate 30 Year that ends up in front of him or the fact that the bottle stays. She watches his throat when he swallows, tendons tight on the side, and licks her lips.

"Do you have a name, love?" he wipes the back of his mouth with one hand and turns so his knees bump against the side of her seat.

She looks down at his legs, then back up at his face, and bites down simultaneous urges to move away and lie. If he can play this game, she can too. She stays still and tells the truth

"Emma." Her first name is easy enough to hide behind. "My name is Emma."

"Well Emma," he is not a large man but she cannot help but notice how he seems to take up so much space. He hoists his glass in her direction. "To love."

She matches his glass with a clink. "To whiskey."

He (Kelly?) laughs.


	2. Question I

She keeps her body facing the bar, knees locked up against the wood, and she tells herself in no uncertain terms that she will keep them there until she leaves. Alone. She will leave alone. It is an affirmation and a comfort, a control.

“Given the choice of anyone in the world - whom would you choose as a dinner guest?"

The question comes without pretext or preamble and despite her best efforts it catches her off guard. Her mind whirs to find his angle. She has always believed the best defense is a good offense. She puts that into practice.

“Are you asking me out to dinner?”

One eyebrow goes up. “Would you say ‘yes’?”

He is joking - she can tell - but it irks her and she turns back to her drink. She could just shoot it and write this off as one of those too weird NYC experiences. She could. She should? He gives her no time to make up her mind.

“I’m only asking for the sake of conversation. Anything I ask you tonight will be nothing more than that and all I ask in return is your honesty.” 

His voice is deep and the urgency of it draws her eyes to his. She sees his openness, his earnestness, and walls fly up against it. People only look like that when they want something and she’ll be damned if she falls for that look again.

“I swear to god if you ask me what color my panties are -”

Hands up in surrender. “I won’t. You have my word as a gentleman.”

A beat.

Her eyes narrow, chin lifts. She does not trust gentlemen. “Any question you ask me - you have to answer too.”

“Fair enough.”

She scrapes for signs that he is being disingenuous but finds none. His posture is open, relaxed, as is his expression. She must be missing something.

“Does the person need to be alive?”

He laughs, warm and deep, and she sets her jaw against the sound. “I do not imagine there are too many rules about it.”

She nods, eyes wandering from his face back down to her drink. Dinner with anyone in the world? On today of all days the answer is glaring, but she would never be ready to share _that_. She needs to buy a minute to clear her head and find a suitable answer.

“If we are being honest - I have no idea.” She casts him a sideways glance, just in time to see him smile, before she looks back at her hands on her drink. “Maybe you should go first.”

“All right.” She hears him lean onto the bar next to her. “I suppose I would have to say - Edward Teach.”

She frowns. “Edward who?”

“Teach. Though you probably know him best as Blackbeard.”

She looks at him now, incredulous. “The pirate?”

“What can I say? I have always had a soft spot for swashbucklers.”

She tries her best not to dissect that statement down to its bones. She reminds herself there is no need to. He is, after all, just another guy at a bar. Affinity for pirates or no, she would be done with him soon enough. It did explain the earring though.

“So then - who would gain the pleasure of your company for an evening?"

One of his forearms rests on the bar. His hand is dangerously close to touching the side of her wrist, but he does not. He just keeps it close, so even when she drops his gaze she cannot forget he is _right there_. She does not let it break her focus.

"I guess - Tony Hawk." She forces a laugh that she hopes is enough to hide her sidestepping.

"Why the illustrious Mister Hawk?" He drags out the name, popping the syllables.

"I don't know. He's cute." She throws him a glance. "I have a thing for blondes."

“Then we have something in common.” He fires back and she had not expected wit. It catches her off balance for a breath.

She laughs again, but uneasy this time. She is used to sleazy pick-up lines, accustomed to the seedier side of men, but his words feel different. They feel sincere, and it is unnerving. She looks down again. His long fingers tap next to her wrist in time with her pulse and it takes more work than it should to shake the thought that he could possibly know the rhythm of her heart.

“I wouldn’t say that is anything to write home about.”

His hand slides forward that final inch to brush along silken skin in the slightest touch. Her defenses blaze high and she pulls just out of his reach.

“Ah Emma. Only an idiot would not write volumes about you after only a single sight of your face.”

His compliment almost makes her feel bad that she cannot remember his name.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! If you want me to keep going - those greatly influence where I spend my writing times. I write in many fandoms and also working on original works so if you like this and want to see more - let me know! 
> 
> So obviously the first question from the study was: Given the choice of anyone in the world - whom would you choose as a dinner guest?
> 
> This is more fun to write than it should be.
> 
> When I am not writing Captain Swan, I write a lot in the Tangled and Frozen universes, but none of that gets posted here. You will have to go to either my tumblr or my ff.net page for those. Or stalk my twitter. There are links to both pages on there.  
> Twitter handle: RAVENSWRITE


	3. Question II

A beat passes before he continues.

“So given your affinity for the celebrity - would you like to be famous?”

She snorts, the idea so laughable. This answer is easy. “No.”

“Not ever?”

“Not ever.”

“Not in any way?”

“No.”

His finger skirts too close to her drink and the hand that grips it. She holds her ground and counts it a victory when he withdraws.

“Why?”

She had not expected the follow-up. It is more difficult to answer. She never gives herself the time to ask herself follow-up questions.

“I like to be left alone.” She shoots him a pointed look but he is left unphased. “I feel like that is hard to do with the whole world looking at you.”

He smiles at that, chuckling deep in his throat, and lifts his drink in her direction. “You, my dear, are wise beyond your years.”

She knows it is a compliment, but it sits strangely in her mind. She launches the counter strike.

“You would probably love the attention.” She takes a sip of her whiskey, not daring to shoot it when he is so close and warm and willing. She needs her wits about her.

He does not answer immediately which surprises her. He has been so light on his feet, quick with his tongue, up to this point that she feels like she has not had a chance to catch her breath. Now she sits and waits and when she looks at him he is smirking like he has only been waiting for her attention. Perhaps he has. She is quickly piecing together a picture of him in her mind and that fits.

“The kind of attention that surrounds the celebrity is so superficial it would be easy to ignore. No.” He swirls his rum. “I could tolerate fame if it found its way into my life but I do not crave it.” She watches him swallow a mouthful. “Do you wish to know what I do crave?”

It is a loaded question and she knows it. She fires back.

“Sex?”

He does not even flinch. “Come now Emma, I’ve already told you the answer.”

She knows what he has told her, but she does not believe it, cannot form her mouth around the word (gods what is his name?).

“What people say they want and what they actually want are very different things.” She will not give into his game.

“In your world, perhaps.” He motions to the bartender to bring her another drink. She almost protests, but she is good for at least three more before she could make any rash decisions. She may as well take him for all he is worth. “But in mine - I always say what I mean and I always know what I want.”

She finishes the rest of her drink as an excuse to not think too long about what that could mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been traveling internationally for awhile. I am back now and hope to updating this more regularly. Thank YOU for all the comments and kudos. It makes this worth writing. These little short chapters are total palate cleansers between my longer multi-chap fics. Plus Captain Swan is just so fun to write. 
> 
> Hopefully now that I have a bit of everything set up from the earlier chapters these next few will come more quickly. No promises, but that is my hope. 
> 
> I also have a tumblr where I post mostly frozen stuff, but if you are into that check me out. ravenwritessstuff [DOT] tumblr [DOT] com
> 
> Or you can follow my twitter and hear my complain about my dog. TWITTER TAG: @Ravenswrite


	4. Question III

She wonders what time it is. There is no clock in the bar and she does not wear a watch. She notices that he (what is his name again?) wears a watch, but she cannot, will not, ask him for the time. Her hand goes for her jacket pocket on the stool and pulls out her phone to check.

“Expecting a call?”

He asks like they are old friends, like their relationship has lasted more than ten minutes.

“Time. I have an early morning.” She doesn’t, but if she is going to lie now is the time.

He nods like he understands. It is a Wednesday - so perhaps he does. He has money - or at least fronts well enough to be smart enough to potentially have money - so he may well have work tomorrow. Yet he is in no hurry to leave. She adds that to the list of contradictions she is accumulating in relation to him.

“I could call you a cab.”

She notes that he does not phrase it as a question leaving it more difficult to respond in an affirmative. He is smooth, but she has at least two more free drinks before she will bite that hook.

“I’ll let you know.” She responds, keeping it as open ended as he did and hoping he squirms under it.

He nods, light catching his cheekbones and damn he is pretty. What? That thought came out of nowhere. She flags down the barkeep to order a water and keep them coming, maybe some fries. Maybe she should have taken that cab.

“Do you ever rehearse your phone calls?”

She does not make phone calls except for work. “I’m not a big talker.”

He actually laughs at this, deep and genuine, and it sets her a bit off balance.

“I’m realizing this.” His knee taps hers under the bar and she tries not to startle. She is not used to anyone being this close, but she is in control so she does not need to worry. She is in control. She is in control... “But do you?”

“Do I what?” She knows what. She is buying time.

“Do you rehearse what you will say on the phone?”

Hadn’t she already answered this?

“No.” She takes a grateful sip of water.

“I do.” He does not wait for her to reciprocate the question. “Sometimes. When it matters.”

She wonders what makes some calls matter than others, but does not dare ask. She is walking a fine line of caution and caring that she is known for monitoring with rigor. He is, however, making her forget and that is dangerous. He may not be a job, but he is just another guy. She knows better. Today of all days, she knows better. She drains her water and gestures for another.

“Do you use a mirror?” She tries to turn it into a joke. His knee bumps hers again and it is all she can do to not jump out of her seat and run.

“Occasionally. Though usually it happens in the shower. I find it is where I do my best thinking.”

Her eyes flicker to where his shirt is unbuttoned, hinting at the expanse of skin that lies beneath, and she does not picture him naked. Not even for one second. Not even close. There is nothing this man can give her that she cannot give herself with way less complication and no regret.

“I do my best thinking when I am taking a shit.”

She wants to repel him, actively tries to, but he leans in even closer now. She can smell him. It is all pine and musk and man and her belly tightens.

“I love the way a woman’s mouth wraps around profanity.” He smiles and takes a sip of his rum. “It is a form of poetry in its own right.”

What exactly has she gotten herself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the comments. Writing this is my ultimate vacation from my more taxing works as it is so quick and fun. Thank you for indulging me!


End file.
